


We Never Lost Control

by arienai



Series: Bosselot Week 2016 [3]
Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Gratuitous Smut, Guest Starring Kurt Cobain, M/M, Switching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-12
Updated: 2016-11-12
Packaged: 2018-08-30 12:12:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8532580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arienai/pseuds/arienai
Summary: Big Boss'll put up with Bowie if it means getting laid.And nobody sells a lie like Ocelot.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt #3 - Loyalty  
> Prompt #4 - Song

You're not much of a David Bowie fan. He's not terrible, but he's not one of your favourites, either. Some of the men you'll know will consider this nothing short of a sin, and Adam is one of them.

Doesn't matter when you're getting laid, though.

You almost walked right past him as you marched up the stairs to your hotel room. It's a nice enough place to have clean carpets and a chandelier in the lobby, but not as nice as Zero wanted you to stay at. _You must always be mindful of appearances now, Jack._ You're the CO and founder of FOXHOUND, an American hero, and one of the greatest soldiers alive - he can't have you slumming it in motels and seedy bars.

Fuck Zero.

Fuck Roy Campbell, too. Which you'd said aloud an hour ago, which should have rolled off his back or led to _at worst_ a drunken brawl. But you're an _officer_ now, not one of the men, and the other majors and colonels had looked at you like you'd just dropped your pants and taken a shit on the floor. 

_She_ would have had your back.

But no, no one has your back right now. You _might_ have punched Roy anyway, and the jacket of the mess dress you carry _might_ have the bourbon he was drinking spilled all over it, and you _might_ be a little bit drunker than you should be, but you'd walked out of the officer's club with your head held high because nobody is going to disrespect her - even for show - and expect to rely on polite society to get away with it.

"Hey there, soldier boy," he says as he hooks his arm through yours and something about the way he straightens transforms him from a pasty stranger into a pale-haired friend. Red gloves, red tie; you're not really sure how you missed it. He's ditched his jacket, too, and his vest emphasizes his narrow waist enticingly enough for you to grab it and haul him back up the stairs with you.

You hope this is going where you think it is. You could really use a fuck. Why else would he meet you at a hotel? If it's more cloak and dagger bullshit from the Patriots you just might knock his teeth out.

You scowl when he slips out of your grasp, but your fears are allayed when he cranks the music up and pats the bed. Sure. David Bowie. Doesn't really bother you when he's sucking the tongue you've slipped halfway down his throat. You yank him down by the tie with you; he snaps your belt off - trust him, of all of them, to get straight to the fucking point. 

He fondles your swiftly harding cock through the fabric of your dress blues and when you push his head down toward it he lowers it without preamble. His blond hair's long enough to grab a fistful of these days and you do precisely that as soon as you've peeled him out of his vest and shirt and tie because as well as he hides everything else his body won't let him hide his arousal - stiff nipples, flushed skin, red lips - and how hard you make him makes you hard. On second thought, you take his trousers, too; the sight of him naked while you're fully dressed pumps blood downward at a dizzying rate.

He can keep the gloves on.

You never thought you'd grow to like the sensation of leather tugging at the sensitive skin of your shaft but you definitely have. It's a good thing, too: he loves to use his tongue and uses it plenty, and well - coating the whole length in a sheen of warm saliva and swirling your tip with it - but he still doesn't get very far down on your cock before he stops. He's not much of a slut; he won't choke himself. It's for the best when you consider the fact that you've never worn a rubber any time that you've fucked him; when you consider - which you don't at times like these - that he still has those cheekbones and those eyes. The last time you tried to get him to by pushing his head down he _bit_ you. 

Hell, a blow job is a blow job. He swallows around your head and fists you through that smooth, stiff fabric and when he murmurs that you're too big for him and he can't take any more while laps up your precum it is like _lightning_ to your erection.

Still, you wonder if you can't coax him downward. Challenging him is usually a pretty reliable way of getting him to do what you want, but in this case that'll turn into an arms race quickly and you don't really want to choke on his dick, either. "Yes you can," you say as you stroke his jaw, his throat with your thumb. You've got a brilliant idea. "Swallow the whole thing and I'll take yours." You shift your thighs apart only slightly; no one is quicker on the uptake than he is, though, and cock twitches at the thought while his eyes narrow determinedly in his pretty face.

He has no idea what he's doing and his first few attempts to deep throat you make him cough and gag - make _you_ grip the headboard for dear life because it feels _incredible_ and right about now you really wish he _was_ a slut - and your cock is utterly coated in his spit before he gets the idea to go slowly. Agonizingly slow. He grasps your thighs for purchase with his damp, sticky gloves and works his way down by fractions of an inch. You can feel hot puffs of breath through his nose against your pubic hair. Feel the soft, slick flesh of his throat constrict around your broad tip. Feel him fight his own gag reflex and make wet, quiet noises in the back of it that aren't quite pained; they sound tantalizingly close to the first few moans he makes when you bury yourself balls deep inside him before he adjusts to the penetration and _holy fuck_ you want to fuck his throat right now.

You're shuddering with need by the time the cocky little shit's lips are close enough to kiss your pubic bone. Which he does. Then rips his mouth off, gasping for air. He's a mess; he wipes his face, grinning. Flashes the white teeth that kept you from considering forcing the issue. "Hope that was good for you, John," he purrs as he reaches into his discarded clothing for a small bottle, and you realize that you probably look like a mess, too.

You're a man of your word. You let him undress you, eagerly. He runs fingers over your chest and through your chest hair; he likes to touch you and it passes for something like foreplay. For all the lies he tells and the performances he puts on, you know for a fact that he likes to be in control and watching him lose that control, even a little, in his excitement over getting the chance to fuck you is endearing. He's cute; if he didn't want to fuck you, you could probably think of him as something like a little brother, but he does, and you're not going to say no to that. Your throbbing, now _aching_ cock is definitely not going to say no to that.

Not when he pulls his red gloves off with his teeth. Slicks up his slender fingers and works them determinedly into your hole, moving with a grace he lacked only a few years ago, an unspoken promise that as he matures he'll become even more fuckable as he grows older, not less. You relax, sprawling out on the pillows, letting him pleasure you. He likes to be in control; he won't use his own cock until you give him permission, even if that means waiting until it pulses and drips.

He knows how to find your prostate and he teases it with his fingertips, stroking it in slow, tempting circles. Enticing you to ask for more. Something thicker, fuller, heavier. But you make him wait until it's thoroughly massaged; uncomfortably swollen. Then you shift your hips for him and gesture for him to move forward.

You like kiss him while you fuck. Always have. He tastes like salt and spit.

The tip of his cock pushes past the tight ring of muscle easily enough as he enters you; it's nice and curved so that, on your back, it pushes right into that spot naturally, with each thrust. Your moan is low with lust and pleasure; you grip his hair again while he rocks into you.

He's good at this already. Picked it up quickly, just like he does with most everything else. Skilled at reading subtle movements, subtle shifts in expression, adjusting to them all and tailoring his own to your pleasure. You rarely even have to tell him to speed up or slow down or go harder or deeper anymore; he does it, unasked. He knows you want a leisurely build up right now or you're going to blow your load way too soon and you don't want him fucking you for long minutes afterward.

 _Good kid._ It's not slow enough for your own dick to soften; warmth gradually pools in your belly. You feel the spike in his heart rate, the quickening of his breath. "John," he gasps and reaches for your cock, obligingly - he's about come and he wants you to, with him.

You grab his hands and trap them. He looks adorably frustrated. "I said you could fuck me, not give me a handjob," you breathe against his mouth, "Come on."

He tries, though. Oh how he tries. He bites his lip and squeezes his eyes shut and does his level best to pace and place his thrusts to where you'll like them most, and the warmth in the pit of your stomach turns to heat, melting hot. Your slit oozes and drips clear, slimy precum all over the shaft and down onto your abdomen. You groan appreciatively. But it's a lost cause: the one mastery you'll always have over him is over your own body and before long his is flushed crimson and he's shaking. His hips freeze. 

"Gonna come?" You ask as you wipe a bead of sweat from his brow. He nods.

He doesn't fight you when you roll him over onto his back, though he does utter a sad cry of protest when you pull his throbbing, weeping dick out of you. You release the hand he used to work you open and rub your own lube-covered fingers briefly along your own thick, slippery shaft before you part his thighs and ease it all the way into his hole in one smooth, slow motion. You hold him down while he squirms and kicks a bit, adjusting. Those sweet noises; not quite pain. Nothing like pain at all when you start to thrust, and yes, this is why he turned the music up - you don't make much noise but he can get very, very loud. 

"John, f-fuck, yes, John, god, _please_ \--" he runs that clever little mouth of his the whole time and you know you've _really_ wrecked him when he breaks character and starts pleading and praising you in Russian. Spanish. French. Languages you don't even _know_.

You're close. He's close. You hold him by the hips and drill him until you can feel his muscles flutter and tense and his stomach gets slick, then you know you're good to bury yourself in that slick hot tightness as deep and hard as you like. "Oh fuck _Adam_..." you groan as your toes curl and the pressure finally drains away with the thick spurts of seed you drive inside him. So much that it starts to leak out as soon as you work your cock free - _fuck_ he's tight. Maybe you don't want a slut after all.

It's a good look for him, though. Eyes glazed, reddened skin soaked with sweat. Come smeared across his belly and dripping from his used hole. Legs spread, knees parted. You add the image to the ones you already have of him: a string of saliva and semen dangling between his lips and the tip of your cock; his ecstatic surprise the first time he came just from being fucked. Best of all: him smiling like he _loved_ it, every time. Like he is now. Like he'd love anything you did to him or he did to you.

That's just another one of his pretty lies though, you acknowledge with a chuckle. Pull him onto your chest rather than the other way around because even though he's taller than you now, you outweigh him by enough to be uncomfortable and probably always will. He definitely has his preferences. Same as you.

Luckily you seem to check quite a few of those boxes, by the way he admires you in the aftermath, so very content. All of your anxiety and anger is gone. Zero and Roy can still go fuck themselves, but he's given you a brief reprieve from the knowledge that you and Roy are building something that will be abused by the powers that be as easily as her and her Cobras were, and that Zero is swiftly turning into a man with ambitions you can't surpass. That he won't be swayed from.

Until Adam says, "Eva's pregnant."

So what? "Congratulations." You pat his chest. "You'll make a great father."

"Oh fuck off, John," he laughs. "Don't even joke about that. You have no idea."

You recall overhearing some hushed conversation between the two of them, years ago, about The Boss's 'genetic legacy' and how Adam'd actually spat some of his drink onto the counter at whatever Zero's suggestion had been. 

No, fuck Zero. "So why do I care?" Eva, you presume, has other lovers - you certainly do.

By the time he finishes telling you, you want to spit, too. You want to hit something, but there's no one and nothing here to hit but Adam. And you're not in the mood to play. How could he do this to you? What kind of sick piece of shit could do this to you? _Breed_ you like you're one of his fucking horses. Expect that your sons could just _replace_ you, without going through anything you went through, without _her_ \- no, not your sons, some _science experiments_ that you want no part of and if Zero were here you would gladly give him a refresher on CQC. No, you would beat him fucking bloody.

And _Eva_... Eva, so charming and so winsome. Eva, who seduced you, but didn't kill you. Because The Boss told her not to. Though she might as well have; she rendered the whole mission _she_ had died for _meaningless_ , stealing it from you. Eva, who won't just go along with what you say but who will string you along with just enough sweetness that she can _stab you in the back_.

You don't realize that you're squeezing Adam's shoulder hard enough to bruise until he slips out of your grasp, again. He didn't tell you right away because... why? So that he could let you fuck him, ease your mind and get your dick wet so that you wouldn't overreact? To smooth things over?

No. No, he looks as impressed with this as you are. He didn't tell you right away because you jammed your tongue down his throat and pushed his head onto your dick instead of asking him why he was here. He wanted to get laid as much as you did.

Eva... once she'd told you that she never seduced someone unless they wanted to sleep with her. Acted horrified that anyone didn't understand why; that to do otherwise would be akin to forcing them. To rape. Bullshit. Lies. At least the kid's lies are good ones: how is doing _this_ to you without your consent _better_ because she's pretty and you're attracted to her and you've fucked? Forcing you to have children against your will? 

"How, exactly, did they plan to slip this by me?" you growl and you notice that Adam's given you some distance, which is unlike him.

"They weren't. She was going to tell you she was pregnant, but not tell you that you were the father," he shrugs, then winces, clutching his arm.

"I'm _not_ the father." Your teeth are clenched. He inches backwards, but nods.

"I know. But that's not how they see it. That was supposed to be my role. To tell you that she hadn't been with anyone except you in the right timeframe, leaving you to wonder if maybe, just maybe a few of your swimmers made it through after all." Adam does spy on the other Patriots. You might have believed him. He has no love for Eva, either. "Then when they were born and resembled you so very closely you wouldn't be able to deny it."

Zero thinks you're an idiot. "I'm pretty sure I'd know something was off when they looked _exactly_ like me, Adam."

"Hm. You underestimate him. He's a cagey old bastard." That bruise is turning dark too rapidly; you've sprained it, at least. Dislocated it, possibly. "They have your genotype but not necessarily your phenotype." That means nothing to you, so he explains: "They have your DNA, but the genes they'll express are random. They won't be exactly the same ones you did. They could resemble your father or mother or grandfather. Genes your family hasn't expressed in generations. Though I'd bet you another blowjob one of them's blond. Just like his _mother_ , you know? They weren't going to tell you the truth until you'd had a chance to bond with them. Raised them."

You want to tell him that that wouldn't work on you. Would never have worked. That you're too clever. Or too unmovable. But you're neither. They would have had you hook, line, and sinker. You wouldn't have wanted them to grow up fatherless, like you did. You never wanted children, but you would have done right by them. By her. Been _proud_ to raise them in your footsteps. Doted on the fucking _blond_ one especially, because he'd be blond like the woman you loved. And Eva, maybe you would have even married her.

You laugh, and it's one of the ugliest sounds you've ever made. No, you're never getting that close to anyone ever again.

You reach for him, palm up. A universal gesture that you lack ill intent; you could just as easily reverse it and break his bones, but he takes your meaning. Allows you to touch him again. Grits his teeth when you crunch that shoulder back into place. "They let you in on it? And you just... bladed them all, Adam?" 

There will be no going back from this. You and the Patriots are done. They lied to you and used you one too many times. You don't like David Bowie, but the song playing right now suits your mood perfectly. It's dark. Bleak. Brooding. Threatening. Zero can sell the world as many times as he likes; you're no longer buying.

He shrugs. Smiles. "His price wasn't as high as the one you're offering."

You haven't offered him anything, though.

 

 

Kaz likes David Bowie, too. Of course he does. Your love life is an endless loop of pretty blond liars who have terrible taste in music. 

Kaz can play that one song you like, though. That's an improvement. You've also decided that Eva's independence was overrated: Kaz can stay home and mind the business and follow you wherever you go and that suits you _just fine_. Really, he's an improvement in every single way. Can't sing worth shit, but he plays the guitar. He's younger. He's charming, like her, but unlike her he's perfectly open about fucking around. You can wrestle him without breaking him; can speak your mind to him, bluntly, without worrying about him bursting into tears.

He's there, idly strumming a few chords on his guitar when you put on another tape you received from her. Another apology in different words. She says she broke ties with Zero. She offers rationalizations for what she did, wields your lingering sentiments for your mentor as a weapon to carve her way back into your good graces. Hah. Good luck. 

This one's a little different: you don't recognize it at first, but it's that same song. A female singer, and it sounds more sultry than foreboding. Tempting more than melancholy. It's not bad, but it just isn't the same. 

You stop the player. Pull the tape out. Fling it out into the sea.

"Sheesh. You're a hell of a critic, Boss." Kaz grins. 

It did dredge up some pleasant memories for you, if nothing else. You sling an arm around Kaz's muscular shoulders, coaxing his head downward.

Now Kaz, Kaz _is_ a slut.

 

 

You never thought you'd be as furious as you were the night you learned about Les Enfants Terribles again.

_Finally ready to join the rest of the adults, John?_

He's right. He's right about all of it.

_I hope you enjoyed your sunny Caribbean vacation. Welcome back to the war._

You've had your fight over it already. He backed down, just like he always does. The second you're serious. He's wrapped around you now, like the cat he told you he isn't, all but purring and nuzzling; blissful, now that you're awake. Zero dragged your broken carcass out of the ocean, Eva hid you away, and _the kid_ protected you. For nine years. Not only you, but everything you had left. For _nine years_. He's grey-haired and the lines on his face are even deeper than yours, but he's still pretty. His voice is deeper, and he's as measured and confident in his movements as you knew he would become. 

Stronger than you thought he would be. Even if you had fought, you would have lost. Pitifully.

What he's done disgusted and horrified you - that is one of _your_ men and he had _no right_ \- until he explained, very simply, very matter-of-factly, that it was that or die. There's nowhere you can run they won't follow. The eyes of the world, of Cipher, will be on you until the day you die, otherwise. He described all the things you could do now, unseen. Possibilities that never existed for you before. A chance to win. To truly win this. To build your future; not just some fanciful pipe dream in the tropics. You spoke late into the night about them. Excited, at last. They're so twisted. So utterly twisted they just might succeed.

One of the last thoughts you had while you stood dazed and stunned by everything you'd lost, were about to lose, and Kaz had raged helplessly, before the two of you plunged into the sea, was that Adam would never have been fooled by any of this. You'd known it was a trap, sure; he would have found an alternative to going in blindly. Might've convinced you it wasn't worth it. Might've gone in and fucking _shot them_ himself if he couldn't. Wouldn't have let the "inspectors" in. Would have looked where you and your best men didn't even think to. He's so utterly indifferent, unchivalrous, to women, in a way that you and Kaz aren't and never could be: he'd just walked up and grabbed one by the tits to make the point that a KGB agent wouldn't have breast implants. Only, you were too _stupid_ to follow his logic.

He passes out in his chair next to you, at times. Lets his guard down around you completely. And why wouldn't he? Killing him would be suicide. Absolutely.

You once made the mistake of picking up one of his earbuds. Curious to see what he was listening to, like it was the most beautiful symphony:

_It's okay, Chico. You won't hurt me..._

You'd recoiled like a man burned.

He's still soft and sweet when you kiss him. All of those memories of him you've saved still well to the surface when you feel his lips on your skin, and they still make your dick hard. You can barely walk; he kicks a chair in front of the door and settles you back against stacked pillows obligingly. Oblivious to your bandages and wasted flesh. Oblivious to the ledgers of death and torture scattered on the bed beside you. Oblivious to the sick joke he's made of one of your best men sleeping not ten feet away.

He turns his music on.

It's music that reminded him of you, he says. Music you missed, all the years you were asleep. It's far too soft and sentimental for you, for the most part, but it doesn't matter when you find he's gotten so much better at giving head it _takes your breath away_. He straddles your knees, bends over, and swallows your cock whole so effortlessly the room sways and it's a struggle not to claw at the blankets. You clutch his hair instead - whole fistfuls of it. Push it out of his eyes so that you can see that his gaze is every bit as heated and eager as it was when you weren't so much sallow, wasted flesh. 

Who did he practice on? You'd ask, but you don't really want to know the answer.

"So you and Kaz do get along," you groan breathlessly as he works his tongue against the vein beneath your shaft, sucking hard. His response is a graze of teeth and the noise you make is not unlike the ones he used to when something you did hurt him but he liked it anyway. "It's okay. Little brothers always fall for their big brother's girlfriend."

At least you can still get a rise out of him.

He pulls his head off with a frown so petulant he could've worn it twenty years ago. "Do you want me to suck your dick or not?"

"No," you chuckle, "I want to fuck you," and the soft exhalation of desire that escapes him at those words is everything you'd wanted to hear from him.

He has so many more scars, now. He can't get his clothes off fast enough, but there's no fumbling, no tearing. Smooth is fast, fast is smooth. A common training refrain; you first heard it from her. He embodies it. The skin he reveals is as marked as yours. Darkened, from his work in Afghanistan. Africa. Lean muscles that absolutely betray what he could do to a man, though only to someone who knew what he was looking for.

You don't have to tell him to leave the gloves on.

Adam lowers himself onto your waiting erection, easing you in, and at once you realize that this was a mistake. Nine years with no contact and no stimulation has left your cock so sensitive it's almost too much just to be inside him. You have no stamina. Sweat breaks out across your skin immediately; even though he's the one doing all the work, the one moving his hips and careful not to ride you too hard. "Ah, John, please--" He tilts his head back like he loves it even though it can't be that good.

He kisses you when you come, a flush across his skin even though he's not even close to finished.

He tries to tell you that it's fine, that he doesn't mind. He understands. He clearly doesn't: you don't leave your lovers unsatisfied. You were taught better than that. When he tries to climb off of you, you hold him there by the hair and push thick, blunt fingers past his rim and into his hole, wet with your come. Hook them into his already swollen prostate and press in hard and deep. Like he wanted.

He slumps over, panting. Finds his voice again. Grabs your wrist and turns so deliciously crimson you know he won't last long. So, you slow down. Work them in lovingly, while his thighs tense and tremble.

You wait until he's shaking with pleasure before you lean down to press your lips to his ear. And ask with a low, dangerous rumble, "How long have you been working for Cipher?"

His whole face lights up with _delight_. "Oh John, I never stopped."

That was what he was doing in Russia. Completing Zero's plan to end the Soviet Union. The decades' long play to unseat soft Kruschev and support warhawk Brezhnev. Whose aggression would bankrupt them. To draw out the war in Afghanistan as long as possible to ensure it. To bring the East and West back together at last; one more step toward making the world one. "You took what he was offering."

He trails gloved fingers along the muscles of your chest, nodding. Panting. Milking your hand. "How else was I going to get back into his good graces?"

You're not so weak that you couldn't break his neck. Pull your hand out and snap it. Draw one of his knives and plunge it right into his eye. "And now you're their spy on me."

He licks his lips; he looks so content, so pleased with you. " _Yes._ John. I'll be... their man on the inside... Ready to influence you however they wish."

But then you get it. You get it. Your favourite song is playing - it's not David Bowie. It's darker, yet the tone is less disconsolate. Haunting; the melody suits the era in which you now find yourself. You grin just as delightedly as he did. 

They don't know they'll be wrapping their talons around the wrong man. _Adam_ won't even know. They'll think - he'll think - that he's selling out the real Big Boss. That he is, finally, under their observation. Under their control. They won't be able to break them, even if they suspect, because it's what Adam and your phantom will _truly_ believe.

His cock weeps so nicely for you. You roll him onto his back and suck it for him. Lovingly. His back arches off the bed and he fists your hair when he comes. You swallow, then kiss his tip affectionately. Press your foreheads together and watch his eyes slip shut, exhausted from all his plotting.

"What did he offer you?" you ask, idly curious.

"A son of my own."

 

 

You build your empire in the shadows, out of sight. His ruse is flawless. Your phantom becomes a legend in his own right; not as a warmaker, but as the saviour they always wanted. The one who disarms the deterrents of the world. And so, they let him live.

You only allow your most trusted men and women at your side, and sometimes, they hear you try different versions of that song. Softer singers, foreign styles. Live acts. It's somehow never quite the same. It's not the same without him, and he doesn't know the difference. He fights for the fake you, bleeds for the fake you, and before it's time for you to take your place back in the light, fucks the fake you, though he promised you he wouldn't.

That's fine. You're sure he meant it at the time. It's just that he's such a good liar he can even fool himself.

 

 

It's mere weeks until you're set to pull the trigger. Until the clock winds down on this long game the two of you have played. You freed him from his delusion and he loved you all over again. Took his place back among the Patriots, their spy once again. And you, back to being their figurehead: the mascot at the head of FOXHOUND, with Roy-fucking-Campbell as your second-in-command. Trapped in an endless loop.

He's promised you that, this time, you'll break free. This is one last vacation before you do. One last hotel room; one last thing he wants to show you before you pull the same trick twice and disappear, only to reappear stronger. With all of the weapons they foolishly abandoned. It's nice. New. You've been to Alaska and you've been to California, but you've never been on this part of the West Coast.

Lush greens so dark they're nearly black; grey skies dripping relentless rain. Cool, refreshing sea breezes and the ever-present scents of bitter coffee and sweet smoke. 

He looks old now, you have to admit it. But, hell, so do you. Time stops for no man. Doesn't look like scissors have touched his hair since you parted ways in Dhekelia. You run your fingers through it; it's still soft, and he tilts his head against your hand like the cat he keeps telling you he isn't. Wandering off to places you don't know and can't follow, yet always finding his way back to you when he wants affection.

When the music starts you know what you'll hear. But what you didn't expect is how well this version of it suits your mood. You're too old for the rest of the crowd; the blond singer alone speaks to you with the depths of emotion you feel, the weight of decades. Not brooding, not sultry, not gleeful: resolute. Accepting. Passing as melancholy on the surface. Beneath it something you can't describe with words. Whatever it is, this man sounds like he's stared it in the face, the same as you have.

"Why do you like this song so much, anyway?" Adam asks you, curious like the cat he isn't.

"It reminds me of you," you say.


End file.
